


the trembling of my fingertips

by dianying (orphan_account)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Body Paint, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, drawing on skin, painting...on bodies?, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dianying
Summary: Foggy’s fingers circle his wrist. The blunt tip of a marker glides across the skin of his hand, the arch of his thumb, smooth and slow over his knuckles.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> um..i was horny? help
> 
> -rambly author cut-
> 
> *makes sad noise* enjoy anyways lmao!!!
> 
> title snatched from touch by nct

It starts— 

Matt doesn’t really know how it starts. It starts, it starts, he’s draped over Foggy’s lap on the old beat up couch and there’s some Netflix romcom playing in the background and the lamp is on, warm, but the main lights aren’t. The window’s cracked open as much as it can be and they’re both in old soft clothes and he can hear the thrum of the street that’s never actually silent, just quiet, and the hoot of the night-birds,

—che-che-che—

Foggy’s thigh is soft beneath his cheek. His glasses pushed off the bridge of his nose by the angle that his face is pressed into his best friend’s thigh. 

Foggy’s fingers circle his wrist. The blunt tip of a marker glides across the skin of his hand, the arch of his thumb, smooth and slow over his knuckles. Just the tiniest bit damp, like, like a kiss, drying as soon as the marker leaves that spot of skin. Matt can smell it, the acidic smell of the marker, but he can’t tell what colour it is because colour doesn’t have a feeling or a smell or a taste— not that he’d. Yeah. 

—it feels like a red marker though. He looks good in red. Foggy said once too, before Daredevil and all the mess and everything and they were just college kids getting ready—ha, _red_ -y—for a party and Matt picked out this one silk shirt that his father told him was a deep reddish colour like sunlight through a glass of wine— 

A pause. Foggy lifts Matt’s hand to inspect it, breath fluttering over the cool skin. Matt can hear the thum-thum-thum of his heartbeat— not fast, not slow, not normal either, just. Calm. A little pit-pat that Matt associates with adrenaline. He hums, so quiet it doesn’t even really form, just a thought of a hum. 

—the _idea_ — 

The marker slides over the wrinkles in his palm. It tickles, a little, but it feels good more than it tickles so Matt doesn’t ask Foggy to stop,

—though—

—he knows that Foggy would stop the moment Matt said the word— no, before, the moment Matt thinks the word ‘stop’ Foggy would stop because even though Foggy doesn’t have enhanced senses like Matt he has— _Matt-senses_. When they’re quiet and calm and good like this he can just _tell_.

—scritch, scratch— 

Foggy pushes his sleeve up and continues the gentle line down his wrist. He hmms, then flips the marker to the chisel tip, and the chisel bounces over the jutting wrist bone. What is Foggy even drawing? The line curls up, and Foggy goes back up and thickens the line. 

Scritch, scratch. 

What are you drawing—? —the idea of a question— Matt sinks deeper into Foggy’s thigh, air whooshing out of his lungs. His hand goes limper in Foggy’s grip. He can’t hear the sound of Foggy’s facial muscles moving but he thinks Foggy might be smiling. Foggy stops, caps the marker, and lets go of Matt. 

It’s so sudden Matt can’t stop—the idea of a sound—no, more than an idea, just a _sound_ —the whine that isn’t, oh, it isn’t voiced but it vibrates in his throat before he clamps it down because he has _dignity_ , he has— 

—Foggy feels the movement of his throat— 

— _Foggy_ — 

—Foggy snaps the elastic against his wrist and ties his long hair up, messy and half of the strands are spilling out but then he picks up the marker against, propping Matt’s wrist up with his pinky, and puts his other hand on Matt’s back— 

—scritch, scratch. 

The drawing is stretching up to his elbow. His loose shirt is beginning to feel tight around his upper arm. —“Wait,” he says, and it comes out like— breathy and sexual and _this is not a sex thing_ but he sits up and the cold air of the room is, in an instant, whispering around him like wind spirits or something. He feels dizzy. His blinks to clear his eyes even though he can’t see and his lips mash together as water pricks behind his sightless eyes. His glasses don’t fall back into place. 

“Matty,” Foggy says. 

—we can stop if you want, is the idea in Foggy’s head, but Matt _doesn’t want to stop_ — he just— but when the idea becomes not an idea and a thing, a tangible _thing_ , that’s when they will stop even if Matt doesn’t want to stop but they stop because Foggy thinks Matt wants to stop but is too stubborn to tell Foggy to stop but neither of them _really_ want to stop and— 

“Wait,” he repeats, tongue stumbling over the single syllable. His hand feels wet, and cold, like he stuck in into a bowl of ice. “Wait,” he says again, even though Foggy doesn’t say anything and he rolls his sleeve back down over Foggy’s drawings and tugs his shirt over his head. Goosebumps prick his skin and he shakes, fingers clenching in the bundle of fabric and Matt forcing his fingers to unclench but they do anyways. “I—”

—wait, wait, wait, _please_ — 

Foggy runs a large hand down Matt’s bare back. He’s warm, warm like a lightbulb. “Okay, Matty,” he says softly. “Whatever you want.” 

—whatever you want— 

He ducks and puts his face back onto Foggy’s lap, knees tucked up to his chest, arms folded into the bundle of clothing and also tucked under his chest and he quivers, he _quivers_. His spine forms an arch like a rainbow and Foggy’s hand feels like a brand at the base of his spine right above his waistband. What _does_ he want? 

“I don’t—” He feels himself sinking, sinking right through the cold leather couch and through the floor and into a place that is supposed to feel safe but— 

—why the ‘but’, buddy?—

— _but_ too many people have taken advantage of him being boneless and being-less and body-less in that place and he blinks desperately, still wetting Foggy’s thigh with the stupid tears he’s trying to blink away. _I don’t **know** what I want_, is the idea clinging to the walls of his throat, wanting to climb out and become more than an idea. 

The cap of the marker snaps off again. 

Shh, Foggy says. Shh, he says, and the cold wet tip of the marker presses against his shoulder blade and despite Foggy’s hand on his back, pressing him down into his lap, he jerks up. The line that dries on his back is jagged and ugly and Matt begins to cry again because— 

“I’m here, Matty,” Foggy whispers, dropping the marker to smooth both hands down Matt’s back. He’s more than quivering now, shaking like his bones are rattling inside him and each sob rolls through his body like a gust of wind across the rolling surface of the ocean and nothing is quite right, nothing’s in line, _nothing_ — 

—his skin cries— 

— _he cries_ — 

—I’m here, whatever you need, _Matty_ — 

It feels like an eternity before he shudders to a stop. “Hey buddy,” Foggy says quietly, curled almost protectively over Matt, lips brushing Matt’s shoulder as he speaks. He’s retrieved the marker— it’s uncapped, Matt can smell it. His back is sore and tense and he twitches as Foggy digs his thumb into the taut muscles. Shh, he says. 

Matt clambers onto Foggy’s lap, prying the marker out of Foggy’s fingers and dropping in onto the coffee table where it bounces and clatters jarringly loudly. Whatever you want, Foggy said. His knees slide on the couch, one of Foggy’s soft thick thighs slotting between his sore, muscled ones. He scrambles, fingers skidding on Foggy’s clothes. It’s horribly clumsy and not graceful. Whatever you _need_ , Matty, whatever he needs Foggy will give it to him and Matt sobs wetly once, burying his forehead into Foggy’s shoulder. Please. He says this. “Fog,” he whimpers. 

“What do you need?” Foggy asks, hands moving up and down Matt’s back still—still? again?—and he shudders beneath Foggy’s touch and can’t seem to make his tongue work. One hand leaves his back and Matt sobs again, an aborted sound that he cuts off the moment he hears it but Foggy hears it nonetheless and it’s _embarrassing_ — Shh, he says, _again_.

Strong fingers touch his chin and moves Matt’s face away from Foggy’s shoulder and forces Matt to look at Foggy or for Foggy to look at Matt’s face— well, he can’t see, so it must be the latter, and Matt can hear the stilted breath Foggy takes. “Oh, Matty,” he says quietly, thumb scrubbing at the tear tracks. “Darling, I—” 

Another deep breath. Foggy lets Matt bury his face back into his shoulder. His hands don’t go back to Matt’s back, which tingles in the cold, but instead touching over the base of Matt’s skull, fingers fluttering like he’s playing an instrument. 

—which, well, it’s not too bad of a metaphor actually— 

—so Matt’s Foggy’s instrument, a piano or perhaps something with strings on the outside, Foggy’s fingers going to pluck those strings, dance across those strings, and the instrument voicing the beautiful song Foggy plays. Oh, this isn’t just an idea— the movements, which strings to pluck, those are ideas and those are Foggy’s ideas, and Matt—the instrument—it just does what it’s told. 

“Listen, now,” Foggy says, voice warm as it floats over Matt’s skin, “I’m going to get you off, and then I’m going to spread you out on this couch and I’m going to finish my drawing, okay?” 

Matt shudders. “Darling,” Foggy says, “it’s a yes or no. Or do you want something else?” 

—I want what you want—

—it’s a yes or no, darling— So he nods. And as soon as he does, Foggy smiles, hand reaching down between them to take Matt in his palm and squeeze and Matt bucks up when he does so but all of a sudden there’s Foggy’s other hand, clenched in his hair just hard enough for it to hurt when he jerks away. 

“Not that it’ll discourage you, right?” Foggy whispers, deep and low, and that— _that_ , that echoes through Matt’s bones more than the slow insistent rubbing would. He’s crying again, and Foggy licks one tear off his cheek before gripping Matt’s thighs— and his hands, his large, beautiful, amazing hands, they spread his thighs and hold him in place and Matt whimpers and surges up again. “None of that now, Matty.” 

Matty, darling, buddy, Foggy says. “Fo— _ggy_ ,” he whines, grinding his hips down. Leave it to Foggy to stop just when he’s hard, _painfully_ hard, stars swimming in sightless eyes. He can feel Foggy’s smile against his hair as he ruts against Foggy’s thigh— _not so soft now, huh?_ —chasing orgasm— 

He finds the cliff and he runs right off, arms spread to fly. 

—a devil doesn’t fly, a voice in his head says sardonically— 

—and despite that voice he flies for a few moments before he falls, and it’s not that type of ugly, rushing fall, but like floating down to land, both feet on the ground. The good kind of falling. 

The kind that happens when you don’t know why you started falling in the first place, the one without the start, because the bad kinds of falling always have a reason. Not a boot to the back or a fist to his nose or a push, a shove, something driving him over the balcony edge. No flight before the fall. That’s the bad kind of falling. He falls, and it’s the good kind of falling, where you run and run and run and you run faster when you see the edge of the cliff and you fly for the few moments before you fall. A thrust on the soles of your feet that drives you high into the clouds before you fall. 

Matt Murdock falls into Foggy Nelson’s arms and that’s the good kind of falling. He knows. 


	2. ( & )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to post this

He’s facedown on the couch when he comes to. Foggy’s straddled his thighs, pushing him into the couch. The window is still open and he can still hear the street and the call of the birds, though the Netflix romcom continues to drone on the in background but quieter. The marker in Foggy’s hand smells different until he realises it isn’t a marker but a whole fucking brush, and the bristles scratch softly against sensitive skin as Foggy layers his back in thick paint. Covering the messed up mark. 

—scratch, scratch— 

—it drips a little, down his side, cold— 

“Good to have you back, buddy,” Foggy says, catching the drop of paint with his finger. He smears it over Matt’s cheekbone. “Lie down now, red looks really good on you,” he says. He leans down, and there’s the marker again— “you’re so gorgeous already, though,” he remarks offhandedly, and ignores Matt’s shudder, 

—shudder— 

—the leather couch squeaks— 

He rolls his shoulders and the dried paint cracks while the wet paint just slides. His thighs feel sticky and it’s a few moments—moment, moment, moment—before he remembers grinding down into Foggy’s thigh, and falling. Dried cum pulls at his skin in the way it kinda hurts but kinda feels good to someone who likes hurt and he whimpers as Foggy grinds the paintbrush in a straight line all the way down his spine. He can feel each individual bristle as they all, the hundreds of them, glide down his back, thick with paint— red paint. 

“Fog,” he says, voice cracking like the paint. “Foggy, I’m—” 

He forgets what he’s going to say when Foggy manhandles him to the bathroom and forces him to his knees, cold porcelain floor burning his skin. The shower water is hot hot hot like the devil’s lava and it washes the paint off him and down the drain and then Foggy hooks the showerhead back onto the clip and runs his hands over Matt himself. Scrubbing free bits of paint. The water drums down on the both of them,

—sshh, sshh, sshh— 

and Matt lets himself relax, finally. 

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter @[kingzhys](https://twitter.com/kingzhys)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the trembling of my fingertips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949814) by [silenceinmolasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceinmolasses/pseuds/silenceinmolasses)




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